8. Right Day, Wrong Movie
Jolon Fairweather’s day off.
It’s Sunday, and a lot has happened since I last wrote.
On Wednesday, I went to work. On Thursday, I did the same. Friday, I called in sick.
Wasn’t actually sick. I just couldn’t be bothered with it all. Checked Slack at 11 to see if anyone had said anything. They hadn’t, which is either good or bad. Or neither.
Probably have their own shit going on and don’t care.
Went out for a walk. Didn’t have a plan. Turned right at the bakery for a change. There’s a new WatchHouse. Wanky nonsense.
Carried on past a man arguing with a lamp post and crossed the road to avoid a man with a clipboard.
It was overcast because Britain, but not cold. I ended up at the park. There were geese everywhere. One of them hissed at me, which felt excessive. I wasn’t even that close.
Chose a bench near the pond and watched a child drop little toy soldiers into it like he was sending them to war. His mum was on her phone as they drifted away forever.
Stayed a while. Didn’t check the time. Didn’t check Slack again. Took a different route back home. Made it feel like I did more with the day.
Dinner was a sandwich. The bread was stale. I toasted it, so it didn’t matter. Went to bed early. Slept OK.
Had a couple of drinks yesterday. Picked out a film on Netflix. Can’t remember what it was called. Saw most of it, fell asleep before the end.
Woke on the sofa this morning with a sore head. Wrote my first article for Medium. Ordered a takeaway and tried to finish the movie.
Thought it wrapped up nicely. But turns out I’d clicked the wrong one. Still, it worked. The assassin became a bookseller and married Meg Ryan.
Tomorrow, I will go to work again. And on Tuesday. And Wednesday.
Will try to get my rambling published. See if anyone wants it. Not sure it’s any good.
-78. The Stranger in My Office
Who are you? Why are you here?
When I got to work, a stranger was sitting in my office.
Coat on the chair. Half-drank coffee mug on display. It felt like her room.
Without looking up, she slid a USB stick across the desk and said, “Could you print this for the meeting?”
Most people would’ve said something. Who are you? Why are you here? Print what?
I took the drive.
Reception had a free desk. The chair dipped to the left and gave me a dead leg. I could follow her screen from there. Work out what was going on.
She took a call in a language I didn’t recognise. Waved her arms as if negotiating a truce. Knocked over a yoghurt onto my Montblanc mouse mat.
When she left for lunch, I slipped in to wipe the desk and grab a folder. I moved carefully. Quickly. As if I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been in my own office.
Her handbag was on the floor, half-zipped. I could see a small tube of something inside. Lip balm, maybe. The air held a trace of something floral.
I collected a few things and left, closing the door behind me.
When she got back, I thought about saying something light and flirty. “Didn’t realise this was a timeshare!”
But the moment had passed. So I took my place in the hall.
She stayed all afternoon. Sometimes stood in front of the window, silhouetted by the sun. Helped herself to the De’Longhi espresso machine and rearranged things in ways I didn’t like.
Our eyes met once. She smiled. I smiled back like I understood what was happening. Then she changed her jumper.
At clocking off time, she picked up my cactus and took it home.
I went to meet Hugh at the courts. Was on fire that day. Beat him in three straight games.
He bought the first round at the pub — the loser always did. We sat by the pool table, under the painting of dogs playing poker. The others showed up a bit later.
I told them about the stranger who’d taken over my office. Someone said my cactus is getting promoted.
Hugh said it sounded like a prickly situation.
7. Report Done. Don’t Fucking Ask Me About It.
Nothing.
Tuesday. First day back in the office after my heroic long weekend.
Spent most of the day blinking at my screen. Somehow got the report done.
Didn’t sleep. Again. I swear I’m going to kill that fucking dog.
6. Unexpected Victory
Bode my time. Waited. Pounced. A hero.
Went to see a film yesterday. Changed my mind at the door. Was about to head home, but then I saw the new bowling alley.
The place looked awful. Full of birthday parties, work outings, couples on dates.
Everyone seemed to have brought a child or a drink. Or both. Laughter ricocheted off the plastic seats. The pins fell like they were trying to escape.
I bowled three games and got a couple of strikes. One of the balls clattered horribly when it rolled, so I adopted it.
A man in the group on the next lane threw his ball really hard, then looked around at his mates like his masculinity depended on it. He got a strike and shouted.
“Boom.”
His friends cheered. I nodded solemnly, like I’d witnessed something profound.
Who says boom?
Afterwards, I spent a while at the claw machine. The toys were all off-brand animals with loose stitching and haunted eyes. A small group of kids were feeding coins in. Failing, one after the other.
I hovered nearby, looking indifferent.
When they gave up, I stepped in. They watched on as I won a frog in a football shirt that said “CHAMP10N.”
Raised it in their direction. Brief. Regal. Like a champion might.
5. The Man with the Mushroom
I looked away like it hadn’t happened.
Had to go to the shops after work. No food, no coffee, and the dog next door is gearing up for another all-nighter.
The bus ride was uneventful, apart from a child eating Wotsits directly off the floor.
Got off a stop before Tesco to get my steps in. When I arrived, the doors slid open like they’d been expecting something.
Was loud inside. And beige. The walls, the lighting, the people. But the basket was blue.
Trudged the aisles aimlessly. Watched the rotisserie chickens spin for far longer than I meant to.
Someone’s trolley clipped the back of my ankle. They muttered something. Could’ve been a curse. Could’ve been an apology. I’ll take either.
A man was trying to scan a single mushroom at the checkout. No bag. He was holding it like an offering. We made eye contact. Then looked away like it hadn’t happened.
I microwaved one of those fancy soups in a cardboard carton for dinner. Pretty good. But they added basil, so it’s really just expensive pasta sauce.
Watched an episode of Border Force. What’s it like doing your job in public like that?
Thought about writing more. Not like the garbage in here. Something that matters. Something people might actually read.
4. Acceptable Components of a Fry-Up
Breakfast is serious. People are wrong.
I mentioned my birthday fry-up at work. Shouldn’t have. It sparked a full-blown argument.
Some unhinged opinions were thrown around.
No one mentioned hash browns. Might have allowed them.
Do belong on a fry-up:
- Bacon
- Eggs (fried or scrambled only)
- Sausage
- Tomatoes
- Mushrooms
- Black pudding
- Toast
Do NOT belong on a fry-up:
- Beans
- Rocket
- Peas
- Chips
- Spam
- Avocado
- Salmon
- Spinach
- Coco Pops
- Turkey bacon
- Pickled onions
- Syrup
- Kippers
- Streaky bacon
- Any sauce that isn’t mustard
Someone said Tofu. Ridiculous. Breakfasts should smile.
Didn’t speak to anyone for the rest of the day.
3. Woke to the Smell of Fish Fingers
Everything was off.
My alarm didn’t go off this morning.
The unbranded wireless charger work got me for my birthday was a charred lump on the floor.
Must’ve melted overnight. Blown a fuse. The whole flat was dark. My fish fingers had defrosted. Could smell them.
No coffee anywhere, so I slapped myself.
Got to work late. The boss was at reception. Tried to sneak past. He noticed.
I don’t like being watched. Used to be important. Had an office. A view. A cactus.
“Afternoon, Jolon. Where’s that report?”
Prick.
“The power went out,” I said. True. But not relevant.
He didn’t say anything. Just waved me away.
Stopped by the pantry for a quick coffee. Got to my desk around 11:30.
My inbox was a mess. Deleted most of it without reading.
Lunch was a Pret ham and cheese, hovering over the keyboard.
Someone had left a packet of chocolate digestives unattended. I ate them.
Left early. Had the fish fingers for dinner.
I’ll start that report tomorrow.
2. Double Denim Descent
Don’t look at me
Where to start? I’m British. So a fry-up seems a safe bet.
Could’ve done something more profound to celebrate my 30th. Booked an exotic trip to find myself. Learned to play saxophone. Wrote a poem.
I settled for bacon at a greasy spoon. It was OK.
Plate empty, I went into town to buy a new pair of jeans. Saw a matching denim shirt. Got that, too.
Didn’t try them on. Don’t like how I look in mirrors.
Thirty now.
Stopped at the local for a pint on the way home. Stayed for a few more. Pissed.
Got back around midnight, and the neighbour’s fucking dog is barking again.
Funny how everything is louder when you’re alone.
All in all, I’d give the day a solid 6.
1. Reluctant Introduction
None of this is real. Don’t read too much into it. Please.
Keep telling myself this is fiction. Only thoughts.
Some things I want to forget. Some I want to remember differently.
Anyway, I’m Jolon. Thirty today.
Hello world, I guess?